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Poem

Charlie and Arthur Johnson are not milking cows no more,
they’re running beef and sheep along with free-range chooks galore.
Their hobby now is ‘trotters’ (most were those you wouldn’t back)
They built a set of stables plus a full size-trotting track.

Their farm was on the edge of town, within walking distance.
Opportunity was always there to give everyone the chance,
to bring their own equipment; whatever that may be,
to cart the muck away for their flowers or a ‘veggie’.

Mostly I walk everywhere, for I’ve never owned a car,
so when I go to get manure I take my old wheelbarra’.
Some days I’d gather twenty loads; stacked high and I did find,
the odour that’s attached to me I didn’t really mind.

One morning with a steaming load I wheeled along the way,
Mickey Vickers pulled me up (he was four years old I’d say)   
Screwing up his little nose at the stench now wheeling past,
he smiled ‘hello’ before across the load his eyes were cast.

“What’s that in ‘yer’ ‘barra’ mister that makes that awful stink?”
“Why Mickey its horse ‘poo’ and straw”. This made Mickey think.
“What are you doing with it?” He continued questionin’.
“I put them on my strawberries” - Mickey gaped and dropped his chin.

“You put that on your strawberries!” Little Mickey’s eyebrows lifted.
With concern he frowned his face; his eyes they quickly shifted,
and called his Mother at the door who walked over from the house … 
“He puts that on his strawberries - I’m glad you put cream on ours!”

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